Reminiscence
by Riene
Summary: Christine remembers the man she loved. E/C, complete, one-shot short story. Please read and review.


**A/N—** This is a one-shot short piece, complete, in which Christine looks back and remembers the man she loved.

 **The Usual Disclaimer** —These characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.

Thank you for reading, and please be awesome and leave a review!

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Reminiscence

2016

Sometimes at night I can still hear the lapping of water against that rocky shore. It is the small things that disturb my mind, bringing back the pain. For years I could not abide candles, and I have never yet heard the sound of a violin without tears coursing down my cheeks. In the marketplace two weeks ago, I came across the faint scent of old sandalwood and sobbed. For those things, you see, remind me of _him_.

It had hurt, the first time he came to me in the manner of men and women. He was clumsy, inelegant, and I was dry and tight with fear. Neither of us knew the mysteries of the flesh. His body, so starved for tenderness, shuddered each time I caressed him, but we learned together. Never since have I had a more tender or considerate lover, and we came to each other often.

I miscarried the only child of our love some years into our marriage, and he was devastated, though he tried to make me believe it was for the best. I never again quickened with life, and now bitterly regret having nothing of him, nothing at all.

For there is nothing of him left in this world. I buried it all with him.

Yes, I did see Raoul afterwards. He had been destined for a great naval career, and I have no doubt that he would have made a fine officer. Raoul was an honorable man, the kind of man who cared for the others, who did not shirk duty, who was a fine leader. His career was cut short when he had to return to Paris after his brother's death. Philippe's passing trapped Raoul at home, managing the vast Chagny estates, and he was never able to escape. His short-lived marriage was unhappy, and that too I regret.

For the first weeks of my widowhood I lived with my old friend Meg Giry. She had become prima ballerina after the retirement of La Sorelli, and Meg too danced until her body failed her. Of her subsequent childless marriage to Baron de Castelot-Barbezac, I will say nothing. They appeared content together, their interactions I observed were respectful and pleasant enough. I took the rooms her mother had occupied, and noted dryly that my poor friend was merely trading out one widow for another, but she had laughed and said I would be the easier of the two to contend with.

I have lived in rented rooms on the grounds of the old Conservatory for some years now. I was left well off, more so than I ever thought possible. With some of the money I scholarship certain students each year. I think he would have liked that. I also take on the occasional private vocal student, and though I attend performances here quite regularly, I have never been back to the Paris Opera. Raoul comes by regularly to take tea with me and reminisce. We take walks together talking quietly and gently of the old days, as friends should. Sometimes I think I see more than friendship in his demeanor, but never does he speak of it, so I do not question.

My old friend Nadir Khan passed on some years ago. His friend and manservant Darius paid an exorbitant amount of money to take his body back to Persia for burial. He came to see me once and told me his family was arranging a marriage for him with a lovely young girl who, Allah willing, would bear him many sons. Though I requested he write me sometimes, I have never heard from him. The world has been an unstable place; I hope for the best for him but have resigned myself to never knowing.

I have not changed much in looks over the years. Well-preserved is the phrase, I believe. My figure never really thickened with age, my eyes are only a little faded. My hair is as unruly as ever, but now I wear it up as befitting my age. I fancy he would still recognize me, were he to walk through my door. And how I want him to walk through my door, to hear that black amber voice, to see those flashing dark eyes turn golden in the candlelight, to feel his thin cool lips warm on my throat and his hands on my face and the weight of his body above mine…just once more, oh God, I would sell my soul for it.

Father Vincent says that is a sin, to have loved someone so, that only Christ himself is worthy of that kind of adoration. But he is only a priest, perhaps he has never known the blending of souls, the joining of bodies, the harmony of two minds and spirits. The love my Erik and I had for each other.

I laid him to rest myself, washing his pale, slim body with my own hands, hands that knew every inch of his flesh. I kissed his thin lips, cold even in death, and laid a rose in his hands, his music at his feet. For so long I held the mask—it seemed cruel to leave him hidden for eternity—and in the end let him go from the world as he had entered it.

And though the years pass, he has not come for me, as he promised. But it is not a broken promise, only a promise delayed. He is my angel, and I will wait for him until time itself stands still.

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Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment. :)

~Riene


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